


A Definitely Not-Haunted Diner

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton needs a nap, Diners, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Pegging, Supernatural Elements, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25362826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Bucky and Natasha, undercover at a 24-hour diner.There's nothing weird about it, nothing at all.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 31
Kudos: 166
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	A Definitely Not-Haunted Diner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> A gift for CloudAtlas, who won a Hawktion. Congrats! This was a fun prompt - I love Natasha, and her POV is great to write. I love these dorks, and I hope you like it!

Despite popular opinion, Natasha does love Clint. 

What she does _not_ love is being awoken at four in the morning by someone humming _Backstreet's Back_ and tugging the blankets off of her. 

"Go away," she says, curls tighter around Bucky's broad back and presses her face tighter against his skin. 

It's warm enough that she can get by on his body heat alone, but she's not a fan of having absolutely nothing covering her. Sometimes her brain insists she's going to be grabbed if a blanket isn't over her (illogical,) despite the fact that a blanket wouldn't save her from a kidnapper anyway. That’s what the Widow’s Bite under the pillow is for.

And the taser under the mattress. And the Glock in the bedside drawer. And the knife taped to the inside of the lampshade.

"Aw, Nat," Clint says, slides in behind her. He's cold from being outside, still fully-clothed, and she scowls against Bucky's spine as he wraps an arm around her waist. His jeans are scratchy and damp. How come _Bucky_ gets to be asleep and she’s forced to suffer? "C'mon. A little love goes a long way."

"You can have love at a reasonable time of the morning.”

“I come all the way from Malaysia and this is how you treat me,” Clint grumbles. His voice vibrates pleasantly against the back of her neck as he spoons up close and as much as she enjoys being sandwiched between them, she’s not enjoying Clint’s quiver strap jabbing into her back.

“Blanket. Shower,” she orders, doesn’t leave any room for argument. “Change. No bow in the bed.”

Clint sighs.

“ _Now_.”

“I have to go again in four hours,” Clint whines, which is - not as much time as she’d hoped for, but _still_.

Eventually Bucky is the one that solves things because he groans and rolls over, shoves his hand between them and manages to unclip Clint’s quiver, pushes it away. That’s one problem down, and then Bucky fishes the blankets out and pulls them half-heartedly back over Natasha before he flops down again.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” he mutters. He leaves his arm draped over Natasha _and_ Clint, keeping them close, and Natasha supposes she can let it slide just this once.

Clint’s gone when she wakes up, and she vaguely remembers his lips pressing soft against her forehead, a quiet _love you, don’t give Bucky all the attention or he’ll be spoiled_. It makes her snort into her coffee, and then she’s got to get ready for work.

There’s no rule that says she has to look straight from the fifties to match the diner but Natasha’s used to playing a role and doing it well, so she curls her hair into an approximation of the right style, finds the white hat and matching pumps. The mint green uniform is more comfortable than she expects it to be - a dress that buttons up at the front is much easier than one that zips up at the back, and Bucky appears at that point, gently bats her hands away so he can help anyway.

The knuckles of his left hand are cold when they brush against her chest. It’s not rocket science but Bucky’s focused all his attention on it anyway, neatly adjusting the collar of the dress and then smoothing down the creases.

“Very nice,” she says, and Bucky’s lips curve into a brief, amused smile.

“Gotta treat a lady nice or you won’t have a lady to be nice to.”

“Did your father teach you that one?”

“My ma,” he says, hand sliding down her shoulder to touch her elbow before steps back. “Think she was scared I’d turn out to be like my gramps.”

“I think you turned out just fine,” Natasha tells him, just for another one of those tiny smiles. The moment passes when she realizes he’s wearing an worn-looking, eye-searingly yellow tank top. “What happened to the costume?”

“Felt weird on the arm,” Bucky answers, shrugs. “Can’t wear any of my mission gear, so I stole something out of Clint’s suitcase.”

Ah. That’s where she’s seen it before. She has to hand it to Clint, he can pull off a lot of terrible fashion choices without trying, and his wardrobe is a testament to that. (It’s truly a wonder he wears all that black on his uniform nowadays.) The yellow isn’t so bad, she supposes. Leaves a lot of bicep to be seen. At least Bucky’s not wearing the Goliath uniform - that one was something only Clint could work.

“Chefs in tank tops are usually a bad sign,” Natasha says.

“Hang on,” Bucky says, pulls out the little white hat and sets it on his head. “Better?”

“You’re lucky we’re not actually trying to attract customers,” she says, but she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth anyway.

“You ready to go?”

“Almost,” she says, picks up her apron. “Do you even know how to cook?”

“Sure I do,” Bucky replies, lifts one shoulder in a shrug as they leave the house. “It’s not that hard, right? Cut things up, put ‘em on the stove, take it off before it goes black.”

This was probably a mistake, Natasha thinks distantly as she watches Bucky saunter towards the loan car, whistling tunelessly. But it’s not like she’d want to spend three weeks with anyone else except for Clint, and he’s not a fan of spy work. Bucky’s good at what he does, when he wants to be.

Bucky’s little hat falls off his head and into a puddle. She stays where she is and watches as he looks down at it for a few seconds, then mutters something inaudible and puts it back on his head, still damp.

Ah, it’ll be fine.

“Good evening,” she greets.

The customer she’s speaking to - a man in a massive trenchcoat that covers everything but his gloved hands and the top of his head - doesn’t reply to her greeting, instead gesturing to the coffeepot in her hand. It’s a little rude but that’s the service industry for you, so she sets down a clean mug on his table and fills it up.

She feels less unimpressed when he slides over a twenty dollar bill. Very well.

He doesn’t seem to want any food, so she heads back behind the counter to the stool she’s moved there, sits down with a sigh.

Bucky appears in the pass-through the minute she does, leans his elbows on the bench and scans the nearly-empty diner almost absently. It’s that face he makes when he’s doing it without realizing - always searching for a threat, waiting for a fight even when he’s on a non-combat mission. It’s been burned deep into his bones and Natasha does the same thing, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling a little melancholy about it.

She tries to imagine what _truly_ relaxing feels like. Can’t even fathom it, and she discards the thought shortly afterwards.

“Glad we got the nighttime shift,” Bucky says.

“Yes,” she says. “At least there’s that. It _almost_ makes up for you not knowing what french toast is. Did you think putting a little flag on it would help the matter?”

“I’m doing my best here, Romanov.”

“I’m sure,” she says. “Were you awake when Clint left?”

“Not really,” Bucky replies, and it’s remarkable that Clint slips through both their defenses like that. Anyone else and they’d be on alert right away. “Heard him singing in the shower, though.”

“He doesn’t realize how loud he is,” she answers.

They take a minute to fall into silence, thinking about Clint’s terrible singing habits. (It’s not _really_ terrible, he’s adorable, he’s just not a fan of staying in-key.) It’s worse when they’re all at Clint’s apartment because his en suite bathroom is _right there_ and he has a habit of leaving the door wide open.

There are worse crimes.

“What are we doing here, Natasha?”

“Fury said there were people he’s looking for,” she replies. “Apparently we’ll know if we see them. My money’s on a Hydra branch, or perhaps AIM again.”

Bucky sighs, shifts on his feet. His little white hat is sliding to one side again and she’s tempted to get a clip for it - the problem with that is she’s fairly sure he wouldn’t bother with a clip anyway, so she’s forced to watch as it tips.

Bucky catches it with two fingers, pushes it back up to safety. He’d tied his hair up at the start of the shift but a few strands have come loose since and they’re stuck to his neck and forehead, damp from steam and the heat in the kitchen. He’s still attractive, although Natasha admits she isn’t a good judge simply because she’s biased.

“Did you write a motivational quote on the whiteboard?”

“Not yet,” Natasha says. “Why?”

Bucky gestures to something on his side and she gets up to go around and look. Sure enough, the whiteboard has _you are not alone_ in bright red letters, written in a neat cursive. Natasha makes a thoughtful _hm_ at it. She’s sure she erased the whiteboard when they got here, but apparently not.

“It’ll do,” she says, and notices the trenchcoat-wearing figure waving at her again.

Natasha’s half-asleep when Bucky speaks to her, and they really need to have a conversation about waking her up when she’s trying to rest. She lets it slide this time, because they’re in the car and not bed. Technically she’s supposed to be keeping an eye out for anything suspicious in the darkened houses they’re driving past and she is, but it’s been a long night and an even longer morning.

“Do you miss Clint when he’s gone?”

“We’re adults, James,” she says. “We can handle being separated for a few weeks.”

That makes Bucky quiet for all of two minutes as he processes that, and they pass the burned-out remains of a farmhouse before he speaks again. “You could handle the damn apocalypse. That ain’t what I was askin’ you.”

“It feels silly to miss him for a few days when I know I’ll be telling him to go away soon enough,” she answers instead, feels a smile curve her lips. “Of course I miss him. What about you?”

“Feels like the sun’s disappeared outta the sky,” he says. Huh. Missing Clint turns him into a poet. “You can live well enough without it but it’s a big thing to be gone, and you always remember it’s supposed to be up there wherever you go.”

“I don’t think humans _can_ live without the sun,” she remarks.

“We’d better start bribing someone to give Barton back to us, then,” Bucky replies. “You think he’d make a good waiter?”

Natasha tries to imagine him in the mint green - first she imagines a striped apron, and then she turns to thinking about Clint in a short skirt and the little hat. The thought makes her snort, shake her head. Clint would be a terrible waiter, but the outfit would be entertaining enough all on its own. He’s onboard with dressing up, he’d probably do it if she asked.

Clint still owes her for that time with the latex, anyway.

She wonders if _Bucky_ would wear a skirt.

“Welcome to Lee’s Diner, how may I help you today?”

“Tonight,” he corrects, as if Natasha doesn’t know it’s just passing midnight and completely dark outside. She manages to hold her tongue as he shifts on the stool and it squeaks alarmingly, despite the man being shorter than she is and twice as thin. His eyes dart around the room like he’s watching for something and Natasha pulls out her notepad, waits.

The man looks at the empty stool next to her again. Looks back at her face.

“Can I have a blueberry muffin?”

“Would you like it heated up?”

“No.”

“That’ll be…” Natasha says, glances back to check the menu. Weird. She was sure there’d been prices written beside each item this morning. Now there’s just a black smudge where the numbers were. “Four fifty?” That seems like an appropriate price.

She hands over the correct change in time for the door to open behind them, the bell tinkling as a damp-looking, leather-clad figure slumps into the nearest booth. There’s a hood over his head and he’s wearing civilian clothes, but she could recognize him by movement alone.

Whatever the job in Malaysia is, apparently it’s not that time-critical.

Natasha takes a muffin out of the cake display and sets it on a plate with a napkin, slides it over to the nervous-looking man before she rounds the counter to approach Clint, who looks like he’s slowly melting into the table.

“You look like a ray of sunshine.”

“Mrgh,” Clint says, very articulately. She glances back at the nervous man, who’s trying to shove the entire muffin in his mouth without any regard for choking, and decides she has time to slide into the seat opposite Clint for a moment.

“How was your flight?”

“Great,” Clint answers, and then yawns so wide that Natasha can see down his throat. Lovely. “All this twenty-hour travel shit is fantastic. Airplane food tastes like death and I’m ninety percent sure a kid peed on the seat next to me.”

“You’ve been very brave,” she tells him dryly.

Clint grins at her, but it’s wan and void of the usual charm. There’s dark smudges under his eyes and she remembers again that he doesn’t do well with being left on his own. She usually organizes it so he has a companion available for things, but no one had been around. Kate’s in California, the rest of the team’s caught up in something else entirely, Tony’s on vacation. He’s all by himself.

Oh, she wants to keep him.

Clint’s got one hand on the table and she puts her own hands over it, squeezes gently over the fingerless glove instead of saying any of the feelings she’s having. He gets it anyway, because he always does.

“Bucky in a skirt,” she says. “Thoughts?”

“God, his _thighs_ ,” Clint answers dreamily.

“I love you,” she says, and her moment of weakness is worth it for the small, genuine smile she gets.

“All done,” Natasha announces, flips the sign on the door to ‘Closed.’ It’s covered in tomato sauce for some reason and she wipes it off on her apron, grimaces. There’s a few hours before the day shift people arrive, but the mission brief insists they leave before six in the morning so they’ve got to get going soon.

Bucky’s still in the kitchen, so she spends a few minutes wiping down tables even though they’re largely unused and then takes the coffeepot with her when she heads over there.

“Are you almost finished? I’d like to get some sleep today, preferably.”

“I guess. Want to make out in the walk-in freezer?”

“Professionalism, Barnes,” she says.

Bucky’s lips curve up into a sly smirk as he leans up against the fryer. He’s the only person who could get away with being _that_ close to boiling oil without it causing major problems. It’s still a stupid thing to do, especially because he’s trying to seduce her in an apron that’s almost as old as he is and a shirt he’s worn three days in a row. He’s terrible.

The worst part is that it’s working.

“Not in the kitchen,” she tells him.

“Booth?”

“You might like to risk strangers watching you, but I’d rather not.”

“Bathroom?”

“It’ll do,” she allows, leaves her apron on the bench as they head for the ladies’. When they push through the doors she grabs the front of his shirt, backs him against the tiles and leans up to connect their lips.

Bucky lets her pin him there, goes loose and relaxed when she bites at his lip, draws back slow. His pupils are blown already and she’s unable to stop herself from kissing him again. She’s never _quite_ gentle with Bucky - he’s just so responsive, and the soft noise he makes when she presses closer is delightful.

“Making out in a goddamn public bathroom. I feel like one of those teens in the movies Clint likes,” Bucky says, eyes fluttering shut for a second when she runs her fingers over the already-sizeable tent in his pants.

"Clint likes a lot of movies," Natasha says. "I hope you don't mean the ones that end in the murder of said teens."

She keeps kissing him until her mouth is tingling from it and Bucky’s grinding against her hand, gasping soft against her. He’s kept his hands pressed against the wall and it’s so nice, he’s so good for her and she wants to spoil him. Clint had said not to, but how is she expected to adhere to that when Bucky looks the way he does?

Natasha pulls back - just an inch, but Bucky still whines at it.

“Stay,” she instructs, and drops down to her knees.

Bucky’s staring down at her with wide eyes as she unzips his pants and slides his underwear down around his thighs. She loves looking at his face, the redness of his lips and the way he’s nearly vibrating with the effort of staying still as she presses a chaste kiss to the shaft. He manages it, though, and she helps by pressing his hips into the wall as she mouths at his dick.

Natasha’s not a fan of blowjobs as such, but she’s always found taking control a heady concept.

Especially with Bucky, who just hands over the reins and trusts that she’ll treat him well. He’s already leaking and she runs her tongue up the slit, maintains eye contact and then slides her mouth down until she’s nearly choking on it.

It’s worth it for the flush on Bucky’s cheeks and the faint sound of his fingers scraping against the tiles.

She wishes there was the time or the opportunity to bring one of her harnesses along, hide it under her short skirt. They could take advantage of the early closing time on Mondays, lock the place up and she could fuck him on the tables, listen to the little punched-out gasps Bucky makes when he’s getting close. She’s half-tempted to have him in the car too, the neon lights from the diner catching in his hair with his mouth wet and swollen from too much kissing.

Ugh, she misses Clint. Normally she’d get to share her ideas.

It’d be nice to all be a team together again, she thinks. Even if Clint hates being a spy. And they wouldn’t have to do the long-distance shenanigans so often if he was working with them, if he was here with them. They could all sleep together, work together, curl up on the couch and watch shitty movies at three in the morning when one or more of them has a nightmare.

No, it wouldn’t be fair to ask that of Clint. She just misses her partner every now and then, so fiercely that it aches a little.

Bucky’s tensing up under her hands and she shifts so she can wrap her fingers around the base of his dick. He’s slick with spit and she jerks him off quickly, feels the ache bloom in her jaw as his gasping gets sharper and louder. Natasha pulls off when he comes, angles it so the mess ends up all over Bucky instead of herself.

Bucky doesn’t seem to give a single shit - quite the opposite, judging from the choked noise he makes. She keeps him where he is until the trembling stops and then she stands up to kiss him again, careful to make sure nothing gets on her outfit.

Bucky just takes it, whines soft in his throat when he tastes himself on her, and goes instantly when she places a hand on his shoulder and pushes down.

“Let me- please,” Bucky says, touches the back of her knees real careful like he thinks she’ll break despite his knowledge to the contrary, and then his tongue trails a hot line up the inside of her thigh, the stubble on his jaw sparking a thousand nerves at once.

“Yes,” she says, winds her fingers in his hair and tips her head back as his mouth touches her.

“Hold on,” she says when they’re outside and cleaned up. “I forgot to lock up.”

“I’ll get the car warmed up,” Bucky answers.

Natasha turns around and takes a few steps, stops when she’s out of eyeview. It takes a few seconds to slide her phone out of her bag, send the photo she’d surreptitiously taken of Bucky in the diner bathroom, hazy-eyed and covered in his own come, to Clint’s number.

It’s not that big of a secret - she really did forget to lock up, but it’s become a habit between her and Clint to send photos of Bucky when he’s not paying attention, and it’s almost just as gratifying when Bucky finds out and goes all flushed about it when they tease him. She’s pretty sure Bucky sends photos of her too, although not during sex. (She’d caught him with his phone in hand once when she was just sitting by a window reading in a pair of shitty sweatpants and Clint’s hoodie, hadn’t known how to feel about it.)

The message claims that it’s been read, but there’s no reply from Clint yet.

Natasha fishes her keys out of her bag instead. When she tries the door though, it doesn’t budge.

Strange. She’s sure she hadn’t locked it.

Her phone vibrates it and she pulls it out to see an image attachment. When she opens it, it’s an extremely blurry selfie of Clint. She can make out his bandaid-covered nose and part of his scruffy jaw, one gloved thumbs-up. In the background she can also see a horde of black-clad men chasing after him though and she sighs, resists the urge to smile. What an idiot.

He’s her idiot, though.

“Two weeks and there’s been nothing,” Bucky announces. “We done here yet?”

“Not today,” Natasha replies, dabbing the rim of a plate where the sauce is trying to escape before she takes it to an unimpressed-looking woman.

Bucky’s both right and wrong; there’s been no sign of any illegal activity. No sign of Hydra or AIM, or the Hand or Fisk’s cronies, nothing to suggest there’s anything for them to take care of. They’ve just been waking up, working all night, driving around for a few hours and then going to bed again. The night shift’s not so bad, really, but it lacks the action she’s come to expect.

Natasha returns to the kitchen and finds Bucky rearranging carrot sticks to make a tiny structure on the plate. She’s not sure what it’s supposed to be. It’s nice that he has a non-violent hobby, though. (She’s a hypocrite for thinking that - she doesn’t have any hobbies herself, only objectives. And Clint and Bucky, she supposes.)

“I don’t think the customers will appreciate your art,” she says.

“Sure they will,” Bucky replies, sticks a piece of celery on top. “If you’re gonna order something as depressing as a salad, you deserve to have a _fun_ salad. People put watermelon on this crap nowadays, right?”

Natasha doesn’t know the answer to that, but she’s not going to tell Bucky that. She gives him a look and he smirks at her, puts the tiny red cubes onto the plate. The amused, faintly teasing expression remains on his face until he sees something over her shoulder, and then it vanishes and he knocks the whole structure over

“Cook’s off-duty,” Bucky says abruptly, and Natasha’s about to tell him he can’t be off-duty because he’s the only cook but he’s already out of the kitchen.

She looks through the pass-through in time to see Bucky smack straight into a startled-looking Clint. They both grab onto each other tight enough to hurt, Clint’s face in Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s hands up the back of Clint’s jacket like he needs to be touching bare skin or he’ll die.

They’re normally more aloof with their relationship. Clint-and-Bucky mostly consists of teasing, bickering and shooting things, sometimes with the kind of rough sex that’s _fantastic_ to watch. There’s not a lot of this, where they’re just holding onto each other in an empty diner like there’s nothing else.

Natasha feels a smile cross her own face.

They’ve really got to do something about this long-distance thing.

By the time she makes her way around to them, they’ve settled in a booth. Somehow Clint’s ended up half-in Bucky’s lap despite how long and leggy he is, Bucky’s hands curled on his thighs. It’s more PDA than usual, and Natasha can’t quite help the affection that bubbles up inside her as she crosses her arms, looks at Clint.

“What can I get you today?”

“Coffee,” Clint says, drops his face into his folded arms.

“Ask nicely,” Natasha instructs. She’s mostly teasing - although none of her other customers seem to have any manners either - but Clint muffles his groan in his arms before he sits up in Bucky’s lap, turns his gaze up to her face.

Natasha hates to admit it but even as exhausted as he looks, he’s still gorgeous.

Clint’s a unique kind of pretty that’s hidden by the way he acts all cocky, always joking so you never notice how long his eyelashes are, or how the colour of his eyes are more cornflower than just plain blue. Natasha wishes he wouldn’t hide the soft smattering of freckles on his skin with bandaids, too. They’re cute.

The beard he’s starting to get is a little strange to look at. It’s nice, though, in a rugged sort of way. His hair’s getting long on the top and she itches to run her fingers through it, maybe pull on it a little until he goes pliant underneath her.

She takes comfort in Clint’s soft spots, partially because all of her own have been mercilessly ironed out (except for the overwhelming ball of affection she feels when she sees her boys. _That_ survived, somehow.)

“How long?”

“Maybe an hour or two,” Clint says. Bucky makes a disgruntled noise from under him. “I could stretch it out to three if I run once I get there. Gotta go to Australia next, these guys like to move around.”

The look on Bucky’s face says he’s _this_ close to fighting Fury over the decision to send Clint away, and while Natasha would be curious about who’d win in a showdown, she doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama.

“I’m just gonna borrow Buck for a couple minutes,” Clint mutters, curling sideways so he can snuggle closer.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” the person says doubtfully.

“You did not,” Natasha agrees.

They turn the takeaway coffee cup around to display the letters written upon it.

That’s not even Natasha’s handwriting, and she regards it curiously before she looks back at Bucky in the kitchen. He’s wiping up a plate, so it’s not his doing. She doesn’t have any reasons for them and they sigh like she’s slighted them in some way and then leave.

She checks the time on the clock hanging up on one wall, and finds herself disappointed when she realizes there’s still half an hour to go.

Her phone is sitting on the counter and it vibrates insistently as she sits. There aren’t any customers - there never are, really - so it’s okay to check. One or two people every three days isn’t a booming business, and she hopes that the day shift has more luck or this business isn’t going to last long at all.

She’s more concerned about that door between the men’s bathroom and the janitor’s closet, because she’s fairly sure it wasn’t there a few hours ago and there’s a strange smell emanating from it.

Natasha picks up her phone. The text is from an unmarked number, and all it says is _you owe me one_.

 _Thank you,_ she sends back, allows for this small moment of weakness.

She lets herself look over to the corner booth, then. Clint’s still curled up on the seat, Bucky’s coat draped over him. He hasn’t even moved an inch in the last few hours. Natasha would be concerned he’s died, but every now and then he’ll let out a rattly snoring noise that makes Bucky snicker quietly. He deserves the rest.

“You want to carry him to the car when we knock off?”

“I could,” she answers absently. “No. He’ll wake up soon enough.”

Bucky shrugs and goes back to cleaning up his workspace, and Natasha watches Clint. He doesn’t like it when she watches him sleep. It’s not like he has to know, though, and it’s not like she’s snuck into his hospital room at three in the morning like last time.

Sure enough, a few seconds later Clint makes a noise in the back of his throat, flails and promptly falls off the seat with a _thump_.

Natasha stays where she is and his head pops back up after a second, hair sticking up in every possible direction. He looks like he’s been attacked by a tornado. The dark circles under his eyes seem less prominent, though, and as he glances around puzzledly there’s a lot more alertness in his movements.

Clint notices her a moment later and scrambles out of the booth to approach the counter, Bucky’s coat still wrapped around him. He perches himself on a stool gingerly, still looking around like he’s not quite sure why he’s here.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says with feeling. “Time ‘s it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But I-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha repeats, and the steel in her voice must clue Clint in because he relaxes against the counter, smiles small and grateful at her.

“Sleeping Beauty,” Bucky greets, poking his head through the pass-through. “How you feeling?”

“Like I was just rescued from a witch’s curse and then I woke up in her lair. No offence guys, but even I wouldn’t eat this,” Clint says, poking at the glass cake display closest to him. The object beneath it is almost black in colour, and as Natasha tilts her head to the side it _almost_ seems as if it’s bubbling.

“We change those out at the start of our shift,” Bucky says. “That’s the third fuckin’ time this has happened, what the hell.”

“Might be the humidity out here,” Clint says, but judging from his face he’s got no clue how expired baked goods work. Neither do they, really. His answer is as good as anything else they can come up with.

“You want to wipe it out or leave it for the day shift?”

“Day shift,” Bucky says decisively. “I want to go to bed.”

Natasha agrees with that sentiment wholeheartedly. Unfortunately they can’t go back to their actual home right now - home is Clint’s apartment moreso than her own, and Bucky tends to stay with one of them instead of going back to the Tower - so the rental will have to do.

Something howls outside and Bucky turns his head towards the sound, frowns. “There aren’t any wolves around here.”

“Could be someone on drugs,” Clint offers. 

“When you said you wanted to go to bed, I thought you meant for _sleep_ ,” Clint says.

“That sounds like a you problem,” Bucky tells him. He looks like he’s going to say something more, but it cuts off into a yelp as Natasha scrapes her nails against his ribs. Clint pushes in close between them, sets his hand against Bucky’s jaw and she gets the perfect view of them kissing, the tantalizing flicker of tongue and teeth.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed and Natasha chooses that moment to move between his spread legs, run one hand up it to feel the flex and shift of muscle underneath. 

“Be nice or Nat’s not gonna give you what you want,” Clint says to Bucky, his fingers wandering down Bucky’s chest to pinch at a nipple.

Bucky’s gaze flicks to Natasha and she raises an eyebrow at him. Truth be told, she likes watching them snark at each other, but there’s no harm in teasing Bucky a little. She’d known Bucky was going to try for something the minute they’d gotten inside and Clint had stripped off his shirt.

Natasha doesn’t feel bad that Bucky likes it best when Clint’s here because _she_ likes it best when Clint’s here too, and it feels the same way when Bucky’s the one that’s missing too. They’re all enough - not one of them is _inadequate_ on their own and they wouldn’t be inadequate if it was only two of them, but they’re at their best when they’re all together.

“C’mon, Natasha, _please_.”

“You’re good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says and it sounds like he’s falling apart already, even though she’s just rubbing the head of the dildo over his stretched hole right now. The strap-on harness is digging into her hips and it’s nothing compared to the noise Bucky makes when she rolls her hips, the silicone ridges rubbing up under his balls.

Clint shifts off of the bed and she loses track of him for a moment as she pushes into Bucky’s hole, and she can’t feel how tight the grip on her dick is but she can look at the way his mouth goes slack, and she can feel Bucky’s thighs squeeze her for a moment before he goes lax.

“James?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. “Keep going. Fuck me.”

There’s not a thing in the world that could make her stop, really.

“Not that I don’t mind watching…” Clint murmurs right in her ear, his warmth pressing against her back. There’s something _else_ pressing against her too but Clint doesn’t act on it, instead curling his fingers around her waist and leaving his request unfinished.

She thinks maybe he _meant_ to continue, but from this angle he can see her fucking into Bucky’s hole and how easy Bucky is for it, flushed cheeks and closed eyes, hands knotted in the sheets. It’s a gorgeous sight.

Natasha snaps her hips a little harder, a little more punishing just to watch the way Bucky moans, the arousal curling hot in her stomach. It also grinds the dildo up against her and it burns hot enough to make her blank out for a second.

“Pretty boy,” Clint says quietly, and the tiny glimmer of a smile that appears on Bucky’s face is everything.

Natasha’s also wanting _more_ than everything though, so she passes the lube that was lying on the duvet back to Clint’s waiting hands, shifts so she’s leaning over Bucky and bracing herself with one hand for easier access.

There’s no time-wasting with him. Two fingers slide into her ass, curl just right and she bites her lip against the fullness of it, the rough scrape of Clint’s callouses. She remembers it’s been months for him without this, without more than a few hours of napping on one of them or a quick kiss goodbye.

There’s been no time for _this_ and Natasha finds she’s missed it, even as she keeps up the steady shift of her hips to fuck Bucky as well.

“Tell me when,” Clint says in her ear, presses his lips to her shoulder and spreads his fingers. The stretch feels good and Natasha bites her lip to stop any noises escaping.

“Now,” she says, even though she usually waits.

“Aw,” Clint answers, sounds pleased. “You _did_ miss me.”

“I can change my mind,” she remarks.

Any other comments she’d had vanish from her mind as Clint’s fingers slip away and his dick replaces it. He doesn’t ask her if she’s okay because he _trusts_ her to say something, and she values that. (She can’t stand being treated like she’s breakable, even if it’s out of courtesy.)

“Move,” she says, and when Clint fucks into her the movement makes her shove into Bucky harder as well, and Bucky moans at them. The dildo is rubbing up against her again and it feels _good_ , and she arches her back as Clint’s wet fingers trail up her ribs to her breasts, rub over her oversensitive nipples.

She’s barely even thrusting anymore - most of the work is being done by Clint, and she’s just grinding her hips enough for that pressure against her clit, suddenly desperate to come like this, with Bucky gasping underneath her and Clint pressed against her back.

Natasha’s so close, _so close_ and the bright spark of pain as Clint’s teeth dig into her shoulder is what finally knocks her into orgasm.

Clint keeps fucking into her and it’s making her shiver with every roll of his hips. It’s too much too soon and as much as she wants to keep going, she needs a break.

Bucky’s eyes flick open when she pulls out of him, and he looks at her searchingly. Making sure she’s okay, even as his cock is leaving a wet trail on his stomach. She waves a hand dismissively and pats Clint’s hip so he shifts back as well, gives her some room.

“Clint’s turn,” Natasha says, rolls out from between them. “There. You two can do the work. Put on a show for me.”

Clint takes it at face value, turns dark eyes on Bucky and says hoarsely, “yeah?”

“I guess you’ll do,” Bucky says, because he always has to be sassy with Clint. It’s always like this, even when already he’s loose and fucked-out from Natasha’s cock.

Clint laughs at the comment, completely unfazed as he tugs Bucky’s hips down the bed and slides into him with one smooth movement, presses his smile to Bucky’s mouth.

It’s a good move and judging from the broken noise that escapes Bucky, he’s thinking exactly the same thing. Clint’s a little less gentle with Bucky than he is with her. His outlook on sex is more or less the same as it is out of sex - Clint just likes making people happy, and Bucky’s happy when he’s being fucked breathless, so that’s what Bucky gets.

The morning sun is starting to filter in through the blinds and it casts stripes of light over them, catching on the shift of Clint’s shoulders and the tangle of Bucky’s hair on the sheets.

They’re still kissing and Bucky’s hand is fisted in Clint’s hair, keeping him close. It’s got to sting but Clint doesn’t seem to care about that, or the way Bucky doesn’t even seem to be letting him breathe. It’s hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins and when Clint swears and wraps his hands around Bucky’s leaking cock.

Natasha finds time to slip the harness off, drop it somewhere out of the space of here and now. She doesn’t take her eyes off them - can’t take her eyes off them, because her boys are gorgeous like this. They’re so beautiful it hurts, and her breath catches as Clint drops his head to Bucky’s chest, grinds his hips and grunts through his own orgasm.

Bucky’s getting loud and Natasha figures she’ll lend a hand, wraps her fingers over Clint’s slack ones where they’re wrapped around Bucky’s dick, helps him jerk Bucky off until he comes too.

Then she sprawls onto her back on the bed, looks up at the ceiling.

She wonders if the old version of herself could’ve imagined this. Sleeping with people for pleasure and not to complete an objective. Loving the people she chooses sleeps with, even if they are damaged, sarcastic dorks. It’s a better future than she’d imagined for herself.

Bucky curls around her and Clint flops down lazily, only shifts far enough that his face is planted against her stomach. The scratch of his beard is slightly uncomfortable but it’s worth it for the long sigh he breathes out against her skin, fingers curled gently around her calf. She puts her hand in his hair and winds the other one around Bucky’s waist, holds on.

Her phone rings.

“Ugh,” Clint and Bucky say in unison, and she’s tempted to agree.

Instead she answers it. “Romanov.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Exactly where I’m supposed to be,” she says. “Why?”

“Funny. Your tracking beacon says otherwise. The diner you were _supposed_ to go to was in the next town over,” Fury says.

“What?”

“There’s not even a diner where you went,” Fury adds. “There’s barely even a _population_. Did you just use this as a free vacation, Romanov? I expect that from Barton, not you.”

“Hey,” Clint protests, but he doesn’t move.

“I’ll call you back later, Nick,” Natasha says, hangs up.

“Knew this place was fucking haunted,” Bucky says.

“Call Moon Knight or something, he talks to ghosts,” Clint mutters. “Later. Nap is more important.”

It really shouldn’t be, but Natasha lets the phone fall to the mattress anyway.


End file.
